I'm Not
by JaimiePrufrock
Summary: Circa season one, Sylar muses on his life and the possibility that he might not be as sane as he once was. One-shot.


**Title:** I'm Not  
><strong>Author:<strong> JaimiePrufrock  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Sylar  
><strong>Genre:<strong> General/Angst  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> 608

**Summary: **Circa season one, Sylar muses on his life and the possibility that he might not be as sane as he once was.  
><strong>AN:** Written for the "Sigmund Freud" one-shot theme at the heroes_contest community on Live Journal. The results are in; I won second place! :)

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(He could hear their voices.)

Sometimes Sylar liked hearing the faint echoes of his prey's last moments reverberate in his skull. In their screams he heard _success._ Another ability acquired meant he was that much closer to being the best evolution had to offer. The rattle of death he heard in each victim's last breath was proof that he was that much stronger and that much better.

(It didn't matter what Freud would say. Or Pavlov. Or Watson. Or Skinner, for that matter.)

When he heard his mother's voice, it was another story altogether. "Don't make a mess, Gabriel," She'd admonish. _I can't help it that the blood spatters, Mother._ "Angel, why are you doing this?" _Because I have to. And I want to. I like it. _"My little boy is meant for something big and important." _I know. Look how special I am now. _"Gabriel, you've been a very naughty boy, but Mommy still loves you." _I loathe you too. Love you, I mean. _

(Because Sylar _wasn't_ insane.)

Sylar was motivated. That was a fact. Killing Brian Davis messed him up for awhile, that was also true, but even stronger than the subsequent guilt was the compulsion to have more, to _be_ more. Sometimes, he felt full, like he had had enough to satiate him forever. Then, in the dead of night, or in a crowded street, he'd feel it again. The need. The addiction. The hunger. Like a voice whispering softly in his ear, the desire to steal again would begin to stir in his gut. Sylar could ignore the hunger for awhile when it was quiet, but when it rose to a deafening roar, he couldn't pretend any longer. Who was he trying to fool, that this wasn't who he'd become? His every orifice, muscle, and bone would hear it, feel it, and ache until he did something. Sylar would have to kill.

(Hearing voices didn't make him crazy.)

In that moment though, that glorious, wonderful, almost _divine_ moment, Sylar didn't hear anything other than the synchronicity of another individual's ability and his own. Like how the perfect tick of every timepiece in the shop would meld into a symphony of singularity, he'd feel the _click_ when he and the power became one. With that new knowledge in his DNA, his inadequacies, his failures, his cravings, were all silenced. In that second, time was temporarily suspended. And then it would be quiet again. For awhile.

(Besides, if you wonder about your own mentality, you're automatically disqualified from lunacy.)

Sylar lay awake, trying to trick himself into slumber. It wasn't working. He was alone in an abandoned movie theatre, his rent-free home for the night. The cinema was only one stop of many on a cross-country hunt for satiation and salvation. Well, the first goal was true at least. The seats weren't comfortable to sleep in at all, yet the smell of stale popcorn and spilled soda was oddly comforting in its familiarity. He felt stirrings of humanity again. This was much better than the worn backseat of the Chevy two states ago.

(Right?)

The power was worth it, even if it meant the duration of lucid thought decreased in between each kill. Quiet's overrated.

(Just agree with me. And shut up. Please.)

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**A/N#2: **For anyone following my ongoing story, "How to Save a Life," the next chapter is coming soon. Promise! I just have to finish up the last essay of the semester, so expect chapter seventeen within one to two weeks.

As always, I love hearing your thoughts. Please leave a review! :)


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